


What We Become

by Reda



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Prison, Friendship/Love, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Sky Pirates, i have no idea what to tag this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-23 07:26:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12502036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reda/pseuds/Reda
Summary: Half Elf Gilbert Beilschmidt is an inmate in a military prison. His crime leaves him shunned by the rest of the prisoners, making escape impossible. When he's sent to "solitary confinement" for a week, he meets another inmate by the name of Arthur Kirkland, the rumored immortal Elven sky pirate. Their bond may prove to be their one hope for freedom. Now all they need is a crew.





	1. Solitary Confinement

**Author's Note:**

> Author Notes: This is a back story in the Dragonblade universe (even though this is the first I'm uploading). When I say “Dragonblade” I'm speaking of my original fantasy story, which means this is one (of possibly several) stories in the works that take place in my original fantasy world. There are several races and fantasy elements and pirates and magic and well, it's a fucking fantasy world, so there's a learning curve, but hopefully it's not too high of one with the way I write it. Hopefully. 
> 
> I'm telling it in first-person point of view for some crazy reason. (Prussia's pov if you want to know). There may or may not be sexual intercourse written out for your enjoyment, but there most certainly is references to it. As well as very heavy themes. VERY. Heavy. Dark. If you don't like seeing Prussia or England / Britain as dark characters with dark urges and pasts, then leave now. If you can stand to live in my world and attempt to empathize with what some would call the absolute monsters of society, then please, stay for a while.
> 
> Just to make the point again: while this is fantasy this is not cute and cuddly fantasy. This is serious, dark, deep, and hopefully not too trigger-happy. (Yes it has its cute moments but yeah...) Granted, I think I do more of mentioning bad stuff and dealing with those themes than writing any of that out.
> 
> Warnings: Serious triggers here! Leave now if you cannot handle! There are in this story: mentions of rape, mentions of child molestation, (mentions: nothing actually written out because it's gross but it pertains to the story as plot), sex as a punishment, and all sorts of sexual deviance into dark themes; this whole series, actually, is full of this. Also, language; language is pretty bad. I'm not sure if I need to tag "underage" since I'm not actually writing that and just mentioning it. I'm sure someone will yell at me if I need to. The rape/ non-con is closer to being written out so that's why I tagged that much and not the other thing. I'm not sure of the protocols on this. But yeah, yell at me if you need to and I'll add the tag.

 

 

Chapter 1: Solitary Confinement

 

Fucking cunt deserved it. That's all I'm gonna say. They can lock me up down here in solitary confinement or whatever this is supposed to be, I'm still going to say the fucking cunt deserved it. Oh sure, his claim that what he was doing fell right in line with my punishment could very well be true, but I don't give a shit. I'm not going to accept being forced to suck some guy's dick, especially not when it belonged to that damn cranky asshole of a police soldier in charge of this prison establishment. Oh, I didn't press my luck too far, of course. I didn't bite it or anything – not to say I wasn't tempted as all hell – but at this point I've had enough jizz in my face to refuse to give him the same satisfaction.

It's not my fault he fell for my ruse. Like I would actually swallow his cum. Hah. Spitting his own filth back in his own face never felt so good.

So yeah. That's why I'm down here. Solitary confinement. A week they said. Just food and water being shoved through the bars at the same time every day like clockwork. I never get to see them, of course. There's only the one little section of the cell that has metal bars like normal prison cells; the rest of the square hold is stone. Pure fucking stone, smoothed out by expert stone crafters. Hah. The fact that people even spent so much work on such a room makes me wish I could yell at my old man for his stupid idea of priorities.

Not that my old man would listen to me. I bet he wishes I was never born, or that he never kept me around. Well, he's got Ludwig now. Ludwig will be the heir and I'll just go down in history as the bad apple of the family who tarnished the innocence of the young heir. The bad apple. The half elf. The bastard child. Yep. That's me.

"Whatever. They can all die in a fire for all I care. Fuck the world!"

My voice echoes strangely in the square smoothed wall cell. It bounces back and makes my teeth rattle, so I opt not to shout again. Guess I'm not going to entertain myself by shouting at nothing. Probably a good thing. They'd call me insane and my prison mates would take every advantage to shove even more insults in my face.

Most prison mates get along. We're all in this shit hole together, after all. It should be us against them. In-fighting just brings us all down and makes life suck even harder than it did before. But, ah hah, with me there's a catch.

See, I'm -

A chuckle from the front of the cell makes me freeze my thoughts. Someone else is here? Out there? But it's not time to pick me up, yet, and it's definitely not time for food. So what? Another prisoner? Who else would be down here?

Hell, this is supposed to be solitary.

"Fuck life in general."

The other voice echoes back to me. Not my own voice. Definitely someone else's. Richer, too. Still hoarse, like mine, but I have a feeling it's at least raspy for a different reason. There's a hint of musical quality, too, which makes me think of the Elves. Oh yeah, I'm a Half Elf, but there's nothing special about my speech patterns. There's Elves in this prison; I've met them; they're the ones that don't hate me because of my crime; they distrust me because I'm a Half Elf, not because...

Well, anyway, the point is there's this certain quality to an Elf's voice that kind of sets them apart. Mystic fantasy reasoning and all that shit. Those fairy tales don't make shit up. Well, they do, but they're actually based on fact. The Elven language is generally smoother and more uplifting than our coarse Human language, but even when an Elf speaks Common they're still using the same lilts, still adding a rhythm and speaking like they're singing and well...

Okay. Whatever. That's enough about the Elven voices. You get the idea, right? The point being this other voice bounced back at me into my _solitary confinement_ _cell_. Like. Solitary. There shouldn't be anyone else down here, and definitely not an Elf.

I'd heard the rumors of course. See, when they marched me into this prison I passed a huge ship that looked like it had been docked into the side of the prison wall. Like someone had used some water trick to move it from the ocean to the prison. Except there was one problem with that idea. There wasn't any water anywhere near this place. Which meant the ship was an enigma, something to gawk at, something to make those stories of sky pirates not so much a story anymore.

What did this have to do with the Elf sharing my solitary confinement?

Ah, right. I haven't gotten there yet.

See -

"What are you down here for?"

I blink and stare in the general direction of the voice. There's an Elf down here, an old rumor of Elf sky pirates floating around in my head, and there's an Elf down here talking to me when we're supposed to be in solitary confinement. For starters, this is some fail design of solitary confinement. My old man really does have his priorities fucked up.

I decide to answer the stranger. After all, it's a hell of a lot better than whispering to myself. Unless I've already been broken by the smooth white walls and this guy is a part of my inner consciousness. No. No, best not to think too far down that route. Better to respond and just not think of things like that at all.

"Spat the warden's own cum back in his face."

There is a snort, maybe another chuckle. Hell yeah, it is pretty funny. "That's...interesting."

Of course I'm not going to elaborate. I don't want to go into a detailed explanation of why I'd be sucking dick in the first place, or what my daily punishment is supposed to be, or why I'm here in the prison in the first place. That's all a bit too heavy and personal for a first time meeting. But if he gets to ask why I'm down here, then, hey, I can do the same right?

"So what about you? Why're you down here?"  
There's a long silence. So long I almost think he's completely quit talking to me. Which wouldn't really be fair. He asked the question first; I was just repaying him. You can't expect to get information from someone without offering something else in return, after all. It's just not right. Even prisoners understand that much.

Hell, it takes so long for him to answer, I'm almost ready to believe that I did imagine him and it's all part of my inner consciousness playing tricks on me. They do say strange things happen to you when you're alone in dark, small places. Well, I know for sure I'm not going to like being underground for a long time. It's not very comfortable.

Eventually, though, the Elven voice echoes back to me with a weight to the words that had been so absent beforehand. "For living."

I can feel my eyebrows raise, and I sit down against the wall, putting my back to the voice, crossing my arms. Yeah, so, he can't see me show my confusion, but that doesn't mean I don't need to show it anyway. At least I can be more comfortable when dealing with this guy.

"Living? The fuck does that even mean?"

There's a spot of silence again, but it doesn't last near as long. "They tried to kill me. Many times. I stay down here because they don't know what else to do."

"What the hell, man? You're making shit up now. No one's immortal, not even the Elves. If they wanted you dead, you would -"

Ah hah. My memory finally clicks back to me. The old rumor of Elf sky pirates. The old pirate ship. A crew had been broken here. This prison had taken out an entire crew of Elf sky pirates, mostly because they had turned against themselves and the Tardin military police force had tricked them until every last one had been captured and executed. The _rumor_ said one had survived, that there was one Elf they couldn't kill no matter what they tried, and that the military had decided to hold him indefinitely until such time came as they could access and use the magic or immortality he seemingly possessed.

"It's you," I whispered. "You're the one they couldn't kill."

"That is what I said, yes."

"Why the hell would they put me in a cell so close to yours?"

"Lack of space, I suppose. I have a feeling this establishment was not originally meant to be a prison."

This makes me blink. I hadn't thought of this place being anything other than a prison before. "What makes you say that?"

"It is built more like a school than a prison."

If I knew what schools looked like, I may have agreed with him. As it was, I could only shrug and try to imagine what the design of this prison must have looked like without all the current decorations and settings. A cafeteria, but almost every large housing establishment had one of those. A huge courtyard area, used for my public humiliation each day – some of those whip lashes still stung from the other day – but it could have easily looked nicer with a garden or planted trees or anything really. Rows and rows of large cell blocks – nice and spacious, except for the somewhat makeshift dividers separating cells further. Wouldn't want too many prisoners gathering together, after all. Gods, I'm glad I managed to get down into solitary confinement. Having to sleep close to so many people that hated my guts...

"It doesn't make it any less secure," I whispered into the echoing cell block.

Trial one: escaping is impossible by yourself.

Trial two: befriending fellow prisoners when your crime is well known and well hated, pretty impossible, too.

Trial three: well, I hadn't gotten that far yet.

Sounding surprised, the Elven voice echoes back to me. "You tried to escape?"

"Once. Twice. Eh. Okay, I lost count, but it never works."

"Yet you still try."

"Of course. You think I'm gonna accept life in this shit hole? Fuck that, man. One of these days, I'll get lucky enough to actually make it out." I sigh. "Sure, it would be easier if I could get people to rally behind me for a large joint prison break, but that's kind of impossible because of my crime."

I suck in a breath. I'm leaving it open. The question is coming. The question I don't want to answer. The one I'd rather pretend didn't exist. The one I don't want to talk about.

"Oh? And what pray tell, is your crime?"

Yep. There it is. Motherfucker. I basically left myself open, too.

Whatever. It's not like he can hurt me. We're both in solitary cells. Hell, we can't even see each other. What's he gonna do when he finds out? The worst he could do would be to yell insults at me...or just stop talking back at all. Which would kind of suck. I hate silence.

Oh well.

"I fucked the wrong person."

I can almost hear the eyebrow raise. "Not 'fucked with' but 'fucked.' Who? The daughter of a king or something?"

I wince because of course he'd think daughter. Everyone in their right mind would think daughter. At this point, I wonder if my punishment would have been any different if Ludwig had been a girl. Heh. Probably would be worse. Maybe if he was older. Then maybe I wouldn't be quite so hated. No, almost guaranteed I wouldn't be so hated.

Oh well. I fucked up. One mistake. One giant misunderstanding, loss of control, and act of selfishness. And now I'm here. And he hates me.

"No, not a daughter. My father only had sons." I sigh, shut my eyes. Gods, why am I even talking about this? I can't stand to replay it, and yet I'm doing it. I'm seeing it all happen again.

Ludwig...I'm so sorry...

"Father only had – you fucked your brother?"

"Yeah. Ruined the perfect innocence of the young heir. Gave my father a reason to get rid of his bastard half elf child. You know, one mistake and everyone thinks I'm a monster."

The Elf goes silent. Absolutely silent. I decide not to think about it. Of course he would stop talking to me. I'm a child molester. No one can forgive me. Hell, I can't even forgive myself.


	2. Once More

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive me for the abundance of original characters. Krija is one of my favorites.

****

Chapter 2: Once More  


  


The week in solitary ended without any more conversations. After my confession, the Elf went silent and stayed silent, as was to be expected. I sucked it up, of course. No one else in the prison liked to talk with me, either, so this was nothing new. Just a little disappointing and sad, I guess. The little time of honest “human” “interaction” I got to experience was probably going to be my last.

Now I'm back in the routine of a typical day. It's early morning and I've been corralled along with select other prisoners to the underground mines. Oh, maybe I should mention where the prison is located. It's part of the reason escape is so damn difficult. Imagine a mountain poking out from the middle of the ocean, except not the ocean but a single mountain poking out from an otherwise empty desert plain. It's an island all on its own, and though it may have originally been a school like the Elf surmised, the prison buildings cover the majority of the small mountain island place. Of course, there's always the issue of finding work for the prisoners so everyone doesn't die or kill each other out of boredom, so the mine blossomed into existence, tunnels searching out in spirals around the mountain itself.

It's anybody's guess what metal it is we're mining, though. I've never seen the strange black gems in my life before now. Whatever it is the military seems to want it in large quantities, having us down here for hours, picking away at rock and metal, and then brought above to separate the special black gems from the dirt and rock.

It's a pain, but this is only a part of the hell I suffer every day.

After spending so much energy picking at rocks, everyone else gets a lunch break and I'm pulled into the center courtyard for daily public humiliation. I could fight as they drag me to the center whipping pole, but I've learned this particular moment of my day is the worst time to attempt escape. It's when they're all expecting it, when I'm most watched, when the other prisoners are grabbing their lunch and meandering their way back up here to watch what happens, using their precious free time to jeer at me.

Such is life, I suppose. Like I've said before, my crime keeps me alienated. No one here has any pity for me. They hate me. All of them. Gods, if I could go back and do it all different, I would. Erase my moment of weakness, my moment where my selfish urges controlled me.

_Ludwig...I'm so sorry..._

One of the guards pushes me forward and I stumble into the pole, knocking my head against the wood. “Ah, fuck, was that even necessary, asshole?”

The guard's grin and rising laughter from the perimeter answers my question. He decides to speak, though, while he strips me of the black and white prison garb and his buddy ties my wrists around the pole – above me, so I have to bend my elbows awkwardly to let my head rest against the wood. “You have quite the crowd today, half-elf.”

I roll my eyes. These guys are always trying to get under my skin. It's never going to work. I've been called a half-elf with that same sneer and snark for only my entire life. Mentioning the fact that I'm being watched isn't going to bother me, either. I'm the half-elf bastard of a king; I've had plenty of moments in the spotlight.

“There's always a crowd.”

“True as that may be, Beilschmidt,” I turn my head to glare at the owner of this voice; the warden, now, that's someone who can get under my skin. “It does appear to be growing each day.”

Vash Zwingli. Warden of the Tardin's highest military prison. He's an asshole. A real asshole, and he hates me beyond anyone else in this shit hole. I still haven't figured out why, but he does; I'm sure it's got to do with more than just my crime, too. His sleek blond hair and cleanly pressed military uniform can go die in a fire for all I care. And that smirk. And the way he's always calling me -

“Don't call me that!” I snap at him, not that it'll do any good, but it's the thought that counts. “In case you keep forgetting, my father fucking disowned me.”

“Family is still family,” Vash intones, shifting his feet and moving his hands to bring attention to the whip in his hand. “You cannot become a One-Name orphan just because you have Daddy issues, Beilschmidt.”

I can feel my teeth grinding. “Shut the fuck up. Just shut the fuck up and get on with it.”

I shut my eyes but I can feel the young human warden move in closer. I can feel his breath, smell his breath, and it's disconcerting because I've sucked this guy's dick before and his aura is making me remember _that_ along with the ghost smells and tastes and _geh_ why does he have to be so fucking close?

“I was going to warn you, Beilschmidt.” Fire feels my belly again just at the last name, but I brush it off instead. This time. This once. “You were in solitary but your punishment for your crime requires something every day. Your actions gave you a few days respite, but now we have to make up for it. You're educated, as higher society dictates, yes? So I'm sure you can math out the details.”

As he moves away, I open my eyes. Make up for my time in solitary? That was a week. A week of freedom. How is he going to make up for it? Seven days of punishment all at once?

Oh shit.

Two a day can be dealt with. Two times seven...or is he counting today, too, so it would be times eight. Which means -

The whip cracks in the air, hitting nothing, but I tense all the same. He's trying to make me flinch. Trying to break me. Fucking hell. This is going to hurt like a motherfucker. But that's not all, either. The whipping is only a part of my punishment. The other part -

My eyes shoot open as the first slash of pain hits my back. I yelp at the unexpected contact. (The first is usually one of the worst, after all.) But my brain is much too wired on the fact that there's more after this, much more, much worse.

Gods, am I even going to be able to walk when they're done?

~!~

Hours later, I'm laying on a cot in a dark cell. Lying on my stomach of course, with my arms crossed to lean my head against something nice since we aren't given pillows. The pain is beginning to dull, but the soreness is only growing with each passing hour. I'm tired, worn,and feeling more abused than ever. Fucking warden being a fucking asshole by making me go through eight times as much as normal. My sentence is bad enough without having to multiply it that much.

I think I passed out during some part of it, though. Oh, I lasted through all the whipping. All sixteen slashes. Yeah. I'm fucking awesome for withstanding that kind of pain. It's the other part that caused me the most problems. I think I was on guy five when my body just couldn't take it anymore?

Ah, whatever.

I'm alive, awake, and in a new cell. I've always had my own personal place because of my crime. The warden may be an asshole, but he isn't dumb. Leave me in a group cell with prisoners that hate my guts and think I'm the lowest part of society? Yeah, that wouldn't end well. Besides, they have rules for a reason. They want me to suffer, not die.

Suffering, heh...

That's what this whole hell is all about, I guess. Makes sense.

Cool hands touch my back and I yelp. Come on. I just got whipped sixteen times. My back kinda hurts right now. A lot. Dull pain is still pain. Of course now it's a bit sharper because she just touched -

“Relax. I have to do it this way. Magic healing can cause unnatural side-effects in half breeds.”

I hiss between my teeth and look over at the medic – oh, right, I forgot to mention I wasn't alone in here. “What kind of side-effects?”

Yeah, after I passed out I guess they took me to one of the prison medics. Fun fact. She's a prisoner, too. And an Elf. An Elf with healing, apparently. I told you there was more than just humans here, right? Right. Well, anyway, I don't think she's too keen on being forced to help me, but she hasn't said anything cruel like everyone else does.

Actually, I kind of like her, but I think it's only natural to like someone who helps to make you feel better. Except for the whole, she keeps touching my back. Cleaning the wounds was the worst part, but now she's spreading some kind of cream along the cuts and I just have to grit my teeth and bear it and...

“At the least worrisome? Headaches, dizziness, nausea.”

I hum. “That doesn't sound too bad.”

She pinches me. _Pinches._ What the _fuck_? Of course I'm gonna yelp again. She's fucking -

“I said that was the least worrisome. You're a half-elf, so it is more likely to be that, but I refuse to heal a half-breed without their consent.”

I groan. “Right, right, but why? What if I want to risk it?”

“You don't.”

“Try me.”

A sigh. The hands pull back and her blue elf eyes find my albino red. “Death. That's the worst.”

I snort and lift my hand to lean my chin against my palm as I smirk at her. “That doesn't scare me. With how things are going now, if death happens, I won't be too upset. I mean, no, I'm not going to outright seek it out or anything, but the _risk_ of death doesn't scare me.”

Her eyes harden. She's not convinced. “You're just a young fool, half-elf.”

“Gilbert.”

Her eyebrows raise. Of course. It isn't all too common for someone to hand out their name so casually, especially to a magic user, especially in a prison. “Definitely a young fool,” she mutters.

The silence stretches. I'm wondering if she's going to give her name at all. What would I do with her name? I'm a half-elf, like she said, so no chance at having magic, and I'm alienated from the rest of the prisoners so no chance in me successfully using her name against her there. Just when I'm about to give up on getting her name and speak again, she sighs, her eyes looking directly at me again.

“Krija,” she says, then immediately shakes her head. “I'm a fool myself for giving in to that, but you look like you need someone to talk to.”

I frown. Pity. She did it out of pity. Fuck. Not what I wanted.

Before I can comment, however, she prods at my back again, poking lower down my backside. I definitely hiss at the touches this time. I'm wearing pants again, but there's no doubt she knows exactly why it hurts down there.

“If I was allowed a say, I wouldn't let you move for a few days. Let you recover before returning to the mines or being subjected to anything again, but -” she sighs. I glance over at her, noting the tangled mess of her long dirty blond hair, noting the teeth chewing at her bottom lip, noting the blue eyes glazed over even as she mumbles. “But they won't give you a break. My magic could heal all the aches, but -”

“But what?” I interrupt. “If you have a chance to heal it all, go ahead and do it. Like you said, they aren't going to give me a break, and being subjected to the same thing tomorrow, though less, is going to make healing even worse.”

Sharp blue eyes glare at me. “When I say death, you realize I don't mean an ordinary death.”

“Uhm. No?”

“If you have even an inkling of magic in you and your magic decides to reject my healing, your magic will in effect turn on you and everything inside you even though my magic tries to heal you. Your insides will become a battleground. Your spirit will sever. You could go up in flame or just waste away or any number of odd magical deaths.”

I gulp, because shit that does sound insane. Then I remember a very important fact. “But I don't have any magic, so-”

“So since you're half-human,” Krija continues, “your body itself could turn on you, thinking the magic entering it is a foreign force that needs to be cleansed. A similar thing could happen, with less magical endings, of course.”

I lick my lips. “Right. Or...I just get a headache.”

She looks away, down at the floor, or maybe at her hands. “Or you just get a headache.”

I lick my lips again and press on. “And that _is_ more common.”

“Yes, more common, but -” she looks to me again. “Are you sure you want to risk it?”

I smirk and start to sit up. Okay, it's painful as all hell to sit up, and gods be damned but my backside, my _ass_ hurts a _lot_ right now. Still. I'm tired of laying down and looking up at her. Her gaze follows me, too. Her thin eyebrows raising. But she lets me sit up, and that's a good sign, right? Well, maybe it doesn't mean anything, but at least she doesn't flinch away from me. Then again, she's been in this prison for a while...at least I think she has. It's not like I would know how long anyone else has been here. I don't come across that many people in a day and well, it doesn't matter anyway.

“I love taking risks,” I smirk again. “It gives me a thrill, and frankly this has been the most interesting my life has been in this shitty prison.”

Blue eyes stare at me, as if she's processing my decision. Then she starts to laugh. An honest laugh, not a smug laughter full of hatred. Not the laughter I've become so accustomed to hearing while here. No, it's the kind of laughter that I miss. The full on disbelief expressed in an uncontrollable burst of joy. I think I give her a smile even as she laughs, though I do try my best to keep the smirk.

“Most definitely a young, foolish half-elf,” Krija says as she breathes for air and shakes her head. “If you survive this, Gilbert, I think I will have to make an effort to see you more often.”

Her hands touch my head, pressing to my temples. I take a breath, trying to ignore the shaking in my hands. I'm shaking in excitement, damn it, not fear. This is exciting, not terrifying. Okay, maybe a little of both. Her eyes close. She starts to hum. Hum. Heh. Silly Elves. Everything goes back to music, doesn't it? How incredibly typical.

The healing isn't a rush of energy. It's not a sudden spark of lightning coursing through my body. No, it's just a steady stream of...something. It's weird, because I can feel the magic enter me. I can almost feel it as it travels through my body, making my fingers numb. It tingles and then itches as it touches my back. The itching grows and I shut my eyes and grit my teeth because it's almost painful.

The itch stays but the magic travels lower, like a searching river striding through a new land. Exploring and separating and losing its power the further it pushes out. But it makes the aches disappear. It makes the soreness in my backside manageable. My back itches like I'm on fire, but everything else is a cool breath of fresh air. Even my skin seems to pulse with the new feeling.

Then Krija removes her hands and I open my eyes to see her eyes watching me. She starts to smile, and I do as well. I'm not dead. I'm not dying. In fact, I feel -

Oh fuck.

“Gilbert?” A hand on my shoulder. “Gilbert, please tell me what you're feeling right now.”

I groan, even as my hand goes to my mouth and I swallow the nasty flavor. “Like I'm going to puke on something.”

“Oh,” her hand moves away. “That's good then. That'll pass.”

“ _Geh_ ,” I mumble some nonsense syllable and then lean back against the cell wall.

I start to breathe heavier and I close my eyes to swallow and focus on not throwing up. It would be sort of embarrassing to have that happen in front of her. But now I'm starting to sweat and feel dizzy and...shit this is almost not worth it. Almost. Reminding myself of what could have been, I suck it up, and do my best to suffer through this wave of discomfort. Seriously, though, I can't decide if the nausea or the dizziness is the worst. And I'm sweating insanely bad, though that cool feeling of magical energy in my body is disappearing. Maybe I'm sweating it out? Weird.

Magic is fucking weird and I'm so glad I don't have to deal with it on a daily basis.

Eventually, though, the discomfort passes, and I manage to open my eyes and sit up normally. (Leaning against the wall is comforting, though, so I keep doing that). “So,” I say, partially at my amazement to see Krija still sitting on a stool beside the cot, still staring at me. “You're an Elf.”

She giggles a little, then rolls her eyes. “Amazing deduction, Gilbert.”

“Ah. Right, sorry. That's obvious.” I lick my lips. “So how long have you been here?”

Her eyes turn guarded, but after a moment she answers. “Several years. Longer than you, certainly. Longer than the current warden.”

Oh? Meh. Not that being here longer than asshole Zwingli is impressive. He's young. He's human. And he's just climbing the military ladder, getting his time in charge of a prison, and probably searching for a way out. Military types are all the same. I would know. My father kind of surrounds himself with them.

“Right, well, then maybe you would know.”

She raises an eyebrow, arms crossing. She's guarded but curious. It'll do. I'm not asking for personal information here. “Know what?”

See, something's been bothering me ever since that first day in solitary confinement. The Elf I was speaking to – was he real? Is he real? I could have so easily made it up because I was dying for conversation. (Honestly, having someone to talk to, finally getting in touch with someone, is amazing and feels wonderful and a part of me wants to jump up and tackle Krija in a hug right now for even caring at all to talk to someone like me, but that kind of reaction could easily push her away and besides it's a bit over-the-top for my awesome self).

“That rumor about sky pirates. You know, the explanation for that ship on this island-mountain prison thing?” As I speak I watch her closely; she looks confused when I describe the area, which I guess is understandable, not many people think of this mountain-in-the-desert as an island the way I do. “It's not real, right? There's no immortal Elf hiding in the solitary confinement cells, right? That's just rumor, right?”

I don't know what answer I'm hoping for. Am I going insane? Hearing voices? Talking to myself? Or is there really an _immortal_ being in this world? Someone with enough innate magic who _refuses_ to die, no matter what you do to him. That's crazy talk. Not possible. Just rumor and stories but...I don't know, would I rather be insane?

“No, they were real,” Krija says.

She turns away. Stands up even and walks to the edge of the prison cell, touching the metal bars separating the both of us from freedom. (Kind of strange to put a female medic in a known molester's cell, by the way; maybe the guards were counting on the fact that I'd be out of it, or maybe she can take care of herself because – hah – Elf magic. Fucking magic.)

“They were? So, there's not an immortal Elf in the-”

“No, there is,” Krija interrupts me. She looks back toward me and there's a shine against her blue eyes. Is she on the verge of crying? What did I say? “You're talking about Arthur. He's the only one who survived my sister's mistake.”

I blink. So he does exist. Krija keeps talking, but my mind starts working on something else. Something different. An immortal Elf. I can use that. I already have this healer who has to have more up her sleeve if she's considered safe being left with me. What more could we do with an immortal? Gods, this is a big chance. I'm not sure how to utilize it yet, but there's a _chance_ here.

I have to get down to the solitary confinement cells again. I have to talk to Arthur again. I need to make him talk to me. I need him to trust me. Somehow. Damn it, I don't know how, yet, but I can't do anything while up here. How am I supposed to get back there, though?

I turn my eyes to Krija and she stops talking. “What? I've seen looks like that before. What are you planning, Gilbert?”

Jumping up, I grab her arms and shove her smaller body against the metal bars. Not hard. Hopefully. She does weigh a lot less than I thought, though so maybe it was too hard. Shit. Not what I'm -

“What the hell are you -”

“Scream.”

“Huh?” She stops struggling, looks into my eyes, reads something there I guess, and then smirks. “You talked to him when you were down there, didn't you? And now you want to go back. Foolish, foolish, half-elf.”

“Maybe, but it's the only chance I have right now,” I say with my own smirk. “I love taking risks.”

Her eyes close but she continues to smile. “And that is why you're foolish. Forgive me for making this look convincing.”

The punch to the face is probably the least expected thing I've experienced while in this prison. Probably.

~!~

The plan worked. I'm being led back into my solitary confinement cell. The guards call me foolish, too. It's not the same as when Krija says it, but hey, I don't really care what the guards think anyway. I have to keep myself from looking too giddy when I get shoved into the empty stone room. I have to keep myself from giggling or calling out to Arthur too soon. I have to wait. Wait just long enough. Listen for their footsteps.

Standing against the wall with the small section of metal bars set into it, I wait. I imagine Arthur. The immortal Elven sky pirate. I wonder what that bastard looks like. I hope he's not all skin and bones and shit. He doesn't sound like some old man. I mean, Elf, right? Being immortal shouldn't make him some weak old man, right? He was on a pirate ship; he has to be fucking awesome. Because I don't care who you are, pirates are always awesome.

The bane of my father's existence, too. Heh. Well, so am I, and I'm awesome so it makes sense.

After enough time passes, I take a breath and shout into the wall. “Fuck life in general!” I grin at how clever I am and then add a little insurance. “Right, Arthur?”

Without missing a beat, the Elven voice from last time returns back, hot and angry as all hell, but at least he's speaking back. “How the hell did you figure that out?”


	3. Trust Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gil and Artie talk it out

 

Chapter 3: Trust Me

 

I'm grinning like an idiot. I know. But it doesn't matter. The Elf has responded. The immortal Elven sky pirate. Holy shit, he's down here, and I managed to get him to talk to me again. Well, snap back at me more than talk, really. Honestly, it didn't even take as long as I thought it would. Then again, a simple angry response doesn't mean he's willing to trust me. One step at a time, I guess.

Step one: get him to acknowledge my presence again.

Check.

Step two: keep up a conversation.

Here we go.

“I also heard how you really are the only one who survived.” I pause, chew the inside of my cheek for a second, then take a breath and plow forward; consequences be damned, I need him to talk to me. “How you're in this mess because of someone's mistake. Your previous captain's mistake, right?”

“Shut your mouth!” The angry fire is a bit more than I expected, and I can hear chains rattling, the clinging echoing against the empty stone rooms. “You know nothing.”

“Obviously I know enough to piss you off,” I counter, even though my brain is trying to think.

Chains. He's been left in an empty cell down here and chained, too? That's a bit of excessive, isn't it? What are they so scared of? He's just an Elf. Ah, well, he's an Elf with some unknown magic capability. Fuck. That's going to make things difficult as all hell. Not only do I have to find a way to break him out of here; I also have to contend with chains.

Fuck my life. I'm not smart enough to figure this out on my own. I know there's something here, but I can't for the life of me think of how to use the cards I've been handed. He has experience as a pirate. He _has_ to have good ideas. If I can get him to work with me...get him to trust me...maybe we can both jump out of hell.

“Half Elf bastard,” Arthur snaps at me.

My reaction is habit. “Yep. That's me.”

I frown when I hear a growl. “Fuck off. Enjoy your solitary and leave me alone.”

_Great_ , I think with a wince. _He's gone silent again_. _Come on, think. What could I say to get him to take me seriously?_ I had a chance to make a friend in him, and I've blown it. Twice. Mentioning my crime was my first mistake. Carelessly using the information I just recently gained to rile him up, another mistake. There has to be a way to fix this. Has to.

Shit, when all else fails I'll just think out loud. “I wonder what mistake she made. Krija didn't really say any details. Just that you'd survived her sister's mistake. Which I find incredibly interesting. Sorry, but it is. Hell, if you have so much magic you can't die, why are you even down here? If I had that much innate magic, I'd break the rocks and bust my way out by force.”

“I'm not a Catrek.” Arthur's voice comes back. “I'm an Elf.”

That's all he says, though. Nothing about his previous captain, or anything else I mentioned. Not even a recognition of Krija's name. Damn. I had hoped dropping her name would spark something, at least. With a grunt, I lean back against the stone cell wall.

What a weird thing to say, too. Of all the options he could possibly respond with, he decides to snap about his race. “I'm not sure I understand. Why bring that up? I didn't say shit about you being a cat-”

“The magic thing,” Arthur interrupts, and he continues, sounding a bit like an annoyed parent lecturing their child about the rules of the universe; whatever, he can talk to me however he wants to as long as he talks to me. “Catrek are the ones with elemental magic. Not Elves. I may have a lot, but I can't access a lot at once nor can I 'break the rocks' as you suggested.”

“Keh,” I yawn. Loudly. On purpose. “How boring. Maybe you're useless after all.”

“Excuse me?”

“What? I just thought someone who was holed up and chained down here, someone the military obviously fears, would have a bit more, uhm, what's the word – pizazz – to his magic abilities, you know?” I grin because that's totally not true. I'm not hoping for random bursts of power. I'm just thinking the whole _he-can't-die_ is pretty important.

Especially because of how the military is treating him. He's _got_ to be a threat. Somehow.

“Pizazz?” Arthur says back. Hey, he doesn't sound pissed anymore; maybe I”m getting somewhere. “I don't know about that. I told you last time. I'm here because they can't kill me. It's that simple.”

I shift a bit. Leaning against the wall is good and all, but eventually I think I'm going to sit down. Yeah. Sitting down sounds nice. Besides, my back fucking itches like crazy and it's so hard to resist the urge to rub it against the stone wall. I know Krija healed me, but I have no way of knowing how well those wounds on my back were healed. How much does the magic do anyway?

Gods, I wish I knew more about magic. I grew up in a predominantly Human world. Where magic is either envied or hated. Where no one knows anything besides what the military feeds them. Where fathers hate their sons solely because of the elven blood within them – or maybe the blood red eyes and white hair on a child bothered him. Hell, I don't know. After Ludwig was born, I was cast aside anyway. All the work and money spent on making me a proper citizen in society was suddenly funneled into my younger brother. Ludwig, the perfect child. Ludwig, the perfectly cute and honest and intelligent and adorable and...

Groaning, I push the memories away. Not what I want to think about right now. _Focus, Gil. Focus._

Taking a deep breath to focus my breathing and help calm my strangely racing heart beat, I tune back into the world around me. Arthur. I need to talk to Arthur. What was the last thing he said? Oh, right, I remember now.

“What use is your magic, then?” Besides, I need to know this, too. I need to know what he can do, so I can start thinking about how to get him out of here. How to get _us_ out of here.

“Why the hell do you keep going back to that? What's so gods damned interesting about my magic?”

I laugh, then. Like, seriously, he's going to ask such a thing to a half-elf? I'd think my interest would be normal. Still, I laugh it off, smile, and slide down to a sitting position against the wall. (Ouch, note to self, back hurts, no more sliding). Covering up my wince, I shrug, more from habit than expecting him to see me, I guess.

“I don't know,” I say. “Maybe it's because I'm a half-elf without any magic to call my own. Maybe it's because I grew up where magic was an enigma. Maybe because the rumors about you and your survival are fucking insane and impossible and knowing that it's true, I'm even more intrigued by the reasons why.”

“Heh,” Arthur grunts. “You and me both.”

Now _that_ makes my eyes open widely. Hell, I even turn my head as if I could see him through the wall. I can't, but I can sure act like it and imagine him, though. “What? You don't know why?”

A sigh. A loud one. Almost sad sounding, too. Odd. “No, I don't. By all accounts, I _should_ be dead. They tried so many ways to kill me...Hell, if they didn't want a body as proof, they might have done it by now. Then again, the magic seems to activate even when I'm asleep or unconscious. So who knows? I certainly don't. All I know is that being down here for so long is draining. Something down here affects it. Maybe I'll die a slow death, having the magic drained from me little by little. I don't know, and I can't do a damn thing to stop it.”

My eyes blink. My head jerks up at a sudden realization. I feel my hair strands bounce against my forehead. Trust. He's talking to me. Personal worries. Something you don't disclose to just anyone. He's discussing his frustration about the slow death he assumes he's suffering. To _me._ The one who came in here and pissed him off with short jabs about his survival and the reason for his current predicament. A short conversation later and he's talking about his lack of knowledge of his own magic, and his fear of his supposedly inevitable slow death. You don't talk about these kinds of things with just anyone. Which means...he trusts me now.

Then again, maybe he just needs someone to talk to and he's taking advantage of me. Whatever. It works. I have his attention, and that's all I needed. Now...

Step three: pitch the escape plan.

This is going to be interesting.

“All right,” I announce into the empty stone cell, listening to it bounce around the room. “Now that I have your attention.”

Beat. “Excuse me?”

I roll my eyes. Did he not hear me? Hell, I've spoken quieter than that before and he's heard it bounce back to him. Oh well. Guess I'll try again a little louder. “I said, now that I have your attention, let's discuss escape plans.”

Laughter. Full blown heavy laughter. I sit there, feeling my eyebrows twitch as it echoes back at me. This is different from the cruel laughter, yes, but it's also different from Krija's earlier bout. Arthur's laughter has so much disbelief in it I can't figure out if he's mocking me or not.

“Hey, shut up!” I snap, the uncertainty getting the best of me. “Fucking asshole, I'm serious.”

The laughter subsides. Slowly. “You're serious?”

“Of course I'm serious!” I shout back at him. Disbelieving asshole. Can no one be optimistic down here? Damn. It's like they don't even want to _try_ escaping. “I've already tried escaping a few times, remember?”

“You would think failing that many times would make you quit.”

I snort. “Oh hell no. Failing only makes me try harder.”

There's no response, and I don't feel like continuing, either. I'll just sit here and let the annoyance simmer a bit. Everyone's always laughed at me for trying something over and over again. The maids, the guards, my teachers, my father... Everyone underestimates me and calls me foolish for trying too hard. Well, fuck them all. I'm not going to give up just because it seems impossible. There's always a way. I firmly believe that, I always have, and I'm not going to let a few months in prison change my outlook.

Sure, by myself things are near impossible. Each attempt has shown me this much. I need help to get out, and because of my crime, getting help has been difficult. The first person to hold any kind of decent conversation with me is Arthur, a fucking immortal Elf _pirate_ who's given up on escape a long time ago. Well, fuck him. I understand he's been stuck down here, unable to die, for a lengthy amount of time. Who knows how many years it takes to break an Elf anyway?

But that doesn't mean I'm going to give up.

“You're either incredibly foolish -”

I roll my eyes at Arthur's comment. “Right. Everyone always says that.”

I hear him chuckle slightly, but he continues on. “Or so determined you're imperceptibly brilliant.”

This gives me pause. “Wait. What?”

The anger and frustration of being rejected so quickly slowly begins to cool. I can feel my head clear. No one's ever seen wisdom in my choices. Hell, even if they notice the determination, they laugh it off as foolish. Sometimes, it becomes difficult to keep up my optimism when there's so many haters around, too. But Arthur...

Two conversations, and he sees the potential in me when no one else would. I haven't even see this guy, yet. He hasn't seen me. Just honest voices going back and forth in a world of stone blocks and metal bars.

“All right,” Arthur says. “I'm listening, half-elf.”

I grimace. “Gilbert.”

“Hm?”

“It's Gilbert,” I repeat. “Gilbert Beilschmidt. Even if I am a half-elf, I prefer my name, you know? Eh. Actually, just call me Gilbert. I no longer consider myself part of a family.”

While it hurts even when I say it, I know it's the truth. And Arthur deserves the truth. He's believed in me. He hasn't heard my ideas yet, but he's willing to listen just because he sees potential. I should give him something for that, right?

“I understand,” Arthur hums, his Elven voice creating those musical phrases just through his speech. “I suppose you should know, then. It's Arthur Kirkland. Call me what you will.”

I close my eyes and grin. Okay, so I'm jumping ahead in the phases of my plan here, and it's not really necessary to keep his interest. But he did just leave it open, so why the hell not?

“All right. What do you think of Captain?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's interesting how much effort has to go into dialogue when you don't have body language at your disposal. Not getting to see Arthur's reactions is kind of sad, but it might actually be building up his character even more for when Gil finally does get the chance to see him.


	4. How Ships Fly

****Chapter 4: How Ships Fly

 

“ _That's your brilliant escape plan?”_

“ _Yup. It's awesome.”_

“ _Do you even know how to get a ship to fly?”_

“ _Elf magic, right?”_

“ _Gods, no. You need Anon to make it fly.”_

“ _Anon? The slave race? There's a bunch of those running around the prison.”_

“ _I doubt there's enough here that have the abilities we would need. Each Anon only has one power, so not only do you have to find enough of them, you have to get enough that have some form of flight or wind manipulation or anything that helps keep the ship in the air.”_

“ _Ah.”_

“ _Then, if you manage to do that much, you have to find someone who can control the Anon.”_

“ _What? Like an overseer? That's not so difficult considering-”_

“ _Sort of. An Anon overseer is usually trained to handle many of them at once. It can't be just anyone, Gilbert.”_

“ _Hm. Okay. I'll see what I can find then.”_

“ _You're not giving up on this, are you?”_

“ _Nope. I never give up.”_

~!~

So our escape plans are made – my plans worked on and tweaked by Arthur – during my second week of solitary confinement. Heh. I still laugh at how it's supposed to be solitary and yet it's where I met Arthur. Thank the gods for the military being lazy, I guess. Anyway, plans are made, and I come out of solitary with a memorized list of things to do and people to look for.

Of course, the day starts in the mines, and then progresses to my daily (or at this point, weekly, I guess) public humiliation. I don't think I last as long this time, or maybe I do and I just fail to count. Ugh. Whatever. Sixteen slashes, eight fucks, and I wake up with Krija healing my wounds. Again.

Only this time things are different because someone else is in the room. I'm laying on my stomach, resting my head on my arms while the Elf medic rubs my back with cream – which both hurts and feels good as the coolness of the cream helps with the burning of the slashed skin. Instead of talking to Krija like I had planned, I find myself staring at the unexpected addition to the room.

I can't decide if the guy is an Elf or not. His skin certainly is pale enough – but then again, my skin is insanely pale and I'm only a half-elf. I don't think I've ever seen or heard of an Elf with such a huge stature though. He looks like a fully trained knight, all this muscle built up and threatening to look at even if he hasn't said a word. Definitely not someone to mess with lightly.

Interesting fact. He's not a guard. There are no guards nearby, as per usual when the cells are closed. This guy isn't one of them, because he's wearing prison garb. He's dressed in the same black-and-white stripes that the rest of us are, and he's glaring at me just like the rest of them. It makes my skin crawl – and I'm not going to admit to having a little part of me that wants to hide behind Krija's healing magic-filled hands. Keep the unnatural muscle man away from me, please and thank you.

“There,” Krija says, her hands lifting from my back. “You can sit up now.”

So I do, lifting up to sit on the cot and lean against the wall. Same thing as last time. Though, honestly, this time I'm not expecting the pain as I switch positions. I hiss and whine as I send a half-hearted glare to the so-called medic.

“Hey, what about your magic?”

Her blue eyes roll and she even moves away, crossing her arms to her chest. “I'm still debating if it's worth using on your sorry ass.”

“Oh come on,” I say, leaning forward, and then immediately regretting the movement so my next words follow a groan. “It worked so well last time.”

One of her thin eyebrows raise. “So well that you immediately went back into solitary for assault.”

“Eh heh.” True as it is, does she have to say it like that? Does she have to look at me like that? “Thought you were in on it. I wasn't actually going to do anything. You know that, right?”

Her eyes narrow this time. “No. I don't. Honestly, considering your crime, I believe you're quite capable of attempting anything. So, no, I can't trust you not to try-”

“I'm not a fucking rapist!”

Okay, so maybe the shout is uncalled for, but the way she's talking has gotten under my skin. Of all the jeers and accusations of others in this prison, I should be accustomed to dealing with people looking at me like this. I should expect her to think of me like that. After all, everyone else does. But I had been thinking she was different. She talks to me. She heals me. She _went along with me_. Why is she doing this now? Why the narrowed, distrusting eyes? Gods, I hate it when people look at me like that. It just reminds me of -

“You don't make a very convincing argument, Gilbert.”

My hands clench and I have to hold myself back from jumping up and shaking her (because _that_ type of action certainly isn't a way to convince her of the truth). “I'm not – Look, what I did last week was only the quickest way I could get back into solitary. I made it look bad on purpose. I thought you understood.”

As she shakes her head, I can feel my control slipping. Control over my emotions. Not anger, though, not anymore. Frustration maybe. Betrayal? Hurt? Do I even deserve to feel such things? Geh. Whatever. It's not like I'm going to cry over it. She has a right to think what she wants. My actions have to convince her otherwise, and what happened last week was apparently too quick, too sudden. I made a bet and lost. Now she hates me just like everyone else. The chance of having a friend here, gone.

Shit. She's supposed to be part of the plan, too.

“For what it's worth,” I mumble. “I didn't rape him.”

My backside hurts – well, a lot more hurts than just my body – as I recall those convoluted moments of selfishness. It's so hard to look back and say I'm innocent, because in truth, I'm not. I _did_ do something awful. I _did_ deserve to come here. But is it so clear cut to call me out for something I didn't technically do?

Although I hang my head, I can see Krija tilt hers. She's curious. About my past. Great. “Him? Oh, you're speaking of your crime. That's the main reason no one trusts you, half-elf.”

I grimace. Back to calling me half-elf. So much progress out the window. “But-”

“Don't sugarcoat it. I know the extent of your crime. I'm allowed to see your files when I've been assigned to heal you. So I know exactly what you're here for.” I wince because she sounds sickened. Of course. Anyone would. “Personally, I already have trouble trusting you because you're half-human, but I was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. A lot of people are put into prisons for crimes they didn't actually commit or for crimes that shouldn't be crimes. You, on the other hand-”

“I didn't rape him,” my denial sounds weak.

Even Krija can hear that much, I'm sure. “The file says otherwise.”

“It can say whatever the hell it wants to!” I cry, standing up. Of course I sit right back down because _ouch_ my fucking _legs_ and _ass_ and _back_ and gods, that was too much. Still, I grit my teeth and force myself to look at her. “I know what I did was worth the sentence, but the file doesn't tell the whole story. I didn't rape him. I didn't rape anyone. It's much more...complicated.”

I'm starting to feel sick just remembering. I can still see Ludwig's bright blue eyes. His wide smile. I can hear his gleeful and yet serious (but childish) exclamations of love for his older brother. I can feel the hugs and almost sense the warmth of the pure innocence. Water forms in my eyes, clouding the visions, as I shake my head and reach my hands up to tug my hair. Love and trust from someone dear to me...and I ruined it. One mistake. One terrible, awful moment and now I'm just a sick child rapist in the files when in truth it's _so much more complicated than that_.

Hands touch my own, fingers threading through my hair and I blink to see Krija close to me, and she's humming. “Whatever it says and whatever the truth may be, you obviously regret it.”

“So,” I croak, finding my voice not to be working quite as I want. “You trust me?”

Her eyes close and she sighs. “I wouldn't go that far. Trust is hard to earn, Gilbert, especially when you assaulted me and you've betrayed the trust of a child once before.”

I wince because she's right. She's right damn it. Who do I think I am, assuming I can gather enough people in this hell hole to trust me and work with me? I have a terrible record, and my actions last week only made it worse. At least from Krija's point of view.

“So that's why you have this guy here, huh?” I mutter, glancing toward the incredibly in-shape Elf who seems to be hovering in the background. “To protect you from me?”

Her eyes glance over her shoulder and her lips press together before she answers. “Your actions appear to have changed my own image. We will speak of him in a moment. I need you to tell me when you feel the magic working.”

“Ah,” I lick my lips and then shut my eyes to try to relax. If she's going to use her magic now, I need to be ready for the side-effects. Eventually, I do feel the coolness of her magical healing energy or whatever the hell you want to call it, and I hum in appreciation as the soreness starts to dissipate. “There. I feel it.”

Her humming changes, the pitches change, and shortly after she pulls back. The energy begins to seep out – or, technically, sweat out, I suppose. I tense up in an effort to keep from puking all over the prison floor. I really hate this side effect. Have I mentioned that yet? I almost wonder if it's worth it; maybe I should just suffer the pain of the whipping and...eh...maybe not; if she's so willing to use her magic to heal me, I should take the opportunity given.

Still. I hate it when my stomach feels so queasy for so long. Even with my eyes closed, I can tell that Krija stands up and moves away. Hell, I hear her stool scratch along the floor as she pulls it with her. After a moment, I can swallow the bile in my throat and look up to see her sitting on the stool next to the metal bars of the prison. The muscle man is still hanging off in the background, closer to her now, but still glaring at me. Shit.

“Gilbert,” Krija says, pulling my attention away from the stranger. “Was it worth it?”

I blink. “Uh. What?”

She sighs. “Did you get to talk to Arthur?”

“Oh! Uhm...” I'm about to answer in the affirmative when I remember the fact that there's this guy I don't know sitting in here with us. I glance over to muscle Elf man again. “I, uh -”

“Don't worry about him,” Krija says. “Borim had his tongue removed a long time ago. He can't spread anything we say here, especially because the Human guards are too stupid to realize he can write just fine.”

“Oh really?”

This makes me laugh. Hah. The guy can't say anything back at me; he just glares; that's all he's got. He can't even go rat me out for anything. Definitely not scared of him anymore. Well, now that Krija's healed me and I can defend myself or at least run from anything if he tries to fight. Bigger means not as fast. So, yeah. Not scared anymore.

“Gilbert...” Krija's voice has a warning in it.

But of course I don't give a shit about her warning. “So your little bodyguard can't say shit? What's wrong big guy? Cat got your tongue?”

So, uhm, just for future reference. Don't piss off someone bigger than you. It doesn't always end up in your favor. And that little rule about big guys being slow and useless? Yeah. Forget that shit. It's a lie.

See, Borim, or whatever his name is, came at me so fast I barely had time to blink. One minute I'm poking fun at him, the next I have my head against the rock wall, a hand around my throat so tight I can't breathe, and well...my own hands being entirely useless trying to pry him off.

Shit. Shit shit shit. I fucked up. I fucked it up hard. Gray eyes are boring into my own, looking so pissed I don't even know how to take it. I can't breathe, I'm against a wall, and all my planning is about to go up in smoke because of my fucking big mouth.

“I tried to warn you,” and Krija doesn't sound at all worried, though I can see that she's moved to stand beside the Elf giant. “Borim, let him be. He's a foolish half-elf, and I _did_ just use magic to heal him so I will be sorely annoyed if you make it go to waste.”

There's a grunt from the heavily muscled man and then the grip around my throat is gone and I feel my body slide against the wall, slumping down as I sit on the cot and stare back at the two Elves before me. I rub at my neck and take nice deep gulps of air. I did learn something about myself in that little moment. I definitely don't want to die from asphyxiation or choking or anything with the whole can't-breathe involved in it. None of those sound like a good way to die.

“So, uh,” I manage to kinda sorta whisper as I try not to huddle against the wall – totally not scared of the big guy, nope, not at all, except maybe a little. But hey, I'm talking directly to him and not poking fun, so that's a step in the right direction, right? “What did you do, then? You know, uh, to lose your tongue? Who cut it out?”

Borim stares at me, his face an impossible mask to read. Then he turns to Krija who sighs and answers for him. “I don't know the details. I do know it was King of the Tardin kingdom. Beilschmidt was the name, right?”

My eyes go wide. The glare from Borim suddenly makes a lot more sense. Oh, shit. He hates me because of something my old man did. Not because of my crime or because of my half-elf lineage. But because of what my father -

Wait.

His skin isn't as pale as I thought it was; I can see it better from this close. It almost looks tanned. Is he even an Elf? Is that dark hair and not dirty blond? Gray eyes, dark hair...incredibly well built and tall and huge and...

...holy shit I remember.

~!~

-Tardin Palace, Years Earlier-

“ _Hold!”_

_Even though I want to press further, I can feel myself grinning as I hold as instructed. My arm is stretched out, my legs spread to help with the movement of pushing forward and up. I've got the point of my practice saber at my teacher's neck, a thrust away from digging it into flesh and cutting upwards for a killing blow. I've won this. I know it._

“ _Gilbert.” So why does my teacher say my name with a sigh? “You lose again.”_

_I nearly stumble at the proclamation. That can't be right! I have my saber at his throat! He's the one inches from death; there's no way he could say I lost this time!_

“ _But-”_

_Speaking out loud is enough to make me realize what he's talking about, because I can feel it now. Taking in that breath makes it obvious and now I know why I lose. “No buts. Look harder. Tell me why you lose.”_

_Still holding my position, I lower my head to see the point of my teacher's saber not just about to pierce skin but actually pressing into my belly. If we were using real sabers, my guts would have spilled out and I'd be suffering a grievous wound by now. I grimace. Even the practice ones kind of hurt._

“ _But I killed you, too!” I exclaim, looking back up at him._

“ _You might have,” my teacher says. “I wounded you first and your momentum may not be enough, especially considering our differences in size.”_

_I grit my teeth. No, he's wrong! I'm sure of it! “My momentum is enough, though! I learned about momentum from the tutors the other day and-”_

“ _It's too risky of a move, Gilbert.” There it is. The real reason I've lost according to my teacher. “You shouldn't lean so heavily on the risks.”_

_I shut my mouth and grumble something under my breath, looking away from him. I still don't agree. I love taking risks. It makes the payout feel better if I win. And I know I won that. If this was a real fight and there was a medic nearby, then I would be okay, but he would still be dead. He just doesn't like my methods! Doesn't mean they don't work!_

“ _Master Dusemer?” A maid enters the courtyard and my teacher gives me the signal to relax._

_As the maid meets up with my fencing instructor, I stand there and rub at my stomach, still holding my practice saber in hand. Freaking jerk. He didn't have to push it in so far. If Mom was allowed to, she would throw a fit anytime someone hurt me. Accident or not. My father doesn't really care, and my mom is a servant (which the rest of the world doesn't know exists for now). They call me a bastard, but I am my father's only son, so I do have some rights, as long as my father allows me those rights at least._

_Still, it's going to make me mad that Dusemer gets to say I lost. According to my teacher, I haven't won a single match and it's pathetic because usually boys my age have figured out a few tricks at least. It's made even worse by the fact that I've had twice as many years because I'm a half-elf, which basically means it's taken me twenty years to reach what humans would consider my tenth birthday. I look and act like the equivalent of a human child of ten; I've just lived for twice that long. Whatever. I think my teacher's not being fair with me, and not letting me have the wins I know I deserve. Well, not accepting it when I do win. Jerk._

_If he would give me this much, my father may not hate me so much. None of the tutors in the castle share my progress as anything but sub-optimal. I'm weak and pathetic and not really worth the time. According to them. But I swear I'm doing good! I know how to read and write, even if my handwriting is awful. But they never share that with my father! They just tell him I'm a failing student when I know I'm not._

_I have to work extra hard to be noticed by him. I just want to be noticed -_

“ _Master Gilbert?” The maid is in front of me now. I blink up at her and her eyes lower immediately. “His Majesty wishes to see you.”_

_I blink again. I never hear those words. Well, rarely. “Huh?”_

“ _His Majesty wishes to see you,” she repeats, holding a hand out to me. “Immediately.”_

“ _Oh! Uh, okay.”_

_I look around for a place to put my practice saber and find my fencing instructor standing beside me. He sighs and takes the weapon from me. “Go on. We'll meet next time to discuss your horrendous stances.”_

_I want to explode on him. I want to go off and complain that it's not fair for him to treat me like a failure. I've done so well so far and he just keeps pushing me down. I swear it's not me. I swear he's either holding me back or being too rough. I don't have a single chance to get anything right because he's always changing his mind on what is correct or not._

_But, anyway, I'm reminded that my father has called on me. My father wants to see me. He never sends someone to find me. Never. I can't waste time. He might take it back._

_So I hand over my saber and rush with the maid to the throne room where my father is currently handling a case of some sort. I've seen a few of these before, mostly from the balcony positions of the second floor. Most of them are boring. Requests for more soldiers here, more protection for planters and farmers, complaints about soldiers acting out. Any number of petitions._

_But the moment I step into the elongated polished stone room, I know that today is different. This case is different. Special somehow. And when I enter, my father smiles at me. He actually smiles at me! “Ah, Gilbert, just in time.”_

_I grin and try not to race up the stairs to stand beside him. I make it fast but hopefully not too obvious. I open my mouth to speak, but someone beats me to it. My mother. An Elven servant currently hanging on my father's arm. She's there to make him happy; I don't know what that means, but I think she does her job well most of the time. I'm just not allowed to call her mother in front of anyone else, and she's not allowed to visit me._

“ _Is this case appropriate, my liege?”_

_My father's eyes flare and my mother shrinks from his gaze. But when he turns back to me, he's smiling again. “Oh, no, this is perfect. My son,” he says and I feel my heart surge in glee. “Watch closely. This is what happens to those who speak out against me.”_

_Huh. That's a weird thing to call me for. Is it some sort of threat? Why does my mother look so upset? I don't understand... Hell, I don't care. He acknowledged me. He called me son. He never does that! Never!_

_So I look out at the person who has apparently spoken out against the king of the land. A large man, someone I would have trouble fighting even if I wasn't a kid I'm sure. Gray eyes glaring toward my father, toward me. Knights holding him down, pinning him to his knees and holding his head. What's going on? Why -? What are they going to do?_

_And then my father speaks. “Overseer Borim of the High Rangers. You have been charged with harboring rebels, consorting with rebels, and using your powers over the kingdom's Anon to aid the rebels. You know what the punishment is should I find you guilty?”_

_The guy spits. My eyes widen. No one would dare be so rude to my father. My father's the king. Who would stand against the king? That...why? “You can do what you wish. I will not regret my actions. I will no longer serve a tyrant king.”_

_I blink. My father makes a motion with his arm. Gray eyes meet mine and I shrink back from the gaze. The moment is over soon, though, when someone else walks in front of the large man and I no longer see what's happening. I hear a grunt and choked cry. And then the blood flows._

_The blood...everywhere. My eyes see it on the tiles. I hear noise around me as the world continues on, as my father gives more orders, as the men move away, but my eyes stay trapped, focused on the red staining the tile floor. So much blood._

_And then there's a hand on my shoulder and I gasp, turning to see my father, but he's no longer smiling. “Do you understand, Gilbert? This is what happens when you disappoint me. Do not disappoint me.”_

_I gulp and nod and feel my body shaking. A threat. All along, that's all he wanted._

_...I wish I could hate him as much as he hates me._ _  
_

  
~!~  


I'm staring at Borim in the small cell, seeing him in an entirely different light as the memories rush back to me. The vivid memories of blood, of rejection, of hatred... Gods, I remember everything. It's almost a sign to prove I was traumatized myself by the event, but whatever.

Something sticks out at me. Anon. Overseer. Could this guy be useful? Could he be one of the guys Arthur said I'd need to find? If we're going to escape using the pirate ship, then we have to be able to make it fly. To make it fly, we have to have Anon. To use the Anon efficiently, we have to have an Overseer who can control them. This guy...

Holy shit. Maybe the gods don't hate me after all.

“Krija,” I whisper, a little surprised to see her look up and acknowledge my words. “Do you have something he can write on?”

She takes a moment to respond, and she sounds a little hesitant. “Yes...why?”

I nod toward Borim, who is still glaring at me. Oh gods, does he remember? Or is he just hating on my name? “I want to ask him something. Well, several things. You said he could write, right?”

Heh. Common. Words are funny.

“Right...” she still sounds skeptical but she does pull out a little notepad from her shirt. Heh. That's weird. Does she not have room in her pockets? Or does she just prefer to keep it there? Eh, whatever. She then proceeds to pull out a pen and bottle of ink from her pockets, probably answering my question. Nice. “It's handy for medics to have material to write with, otherwise you would be left to reading rock scratches on the stone.”

I wave my hand in the air. “Whatever. I'm just lucky, I guess.”

Krija laughs as she hands the paper and pen and ink to Borim. Borim glares at me, unconvinced no doubt, but he takes the materials and then sits down so he can write. Krija hovers close to him. I stay on my comfortable cot and lean against the wall. The little distance I can keep, the less movement I make, the better. They're both on edge and not trusting of me. I have to tread lightly. Hey, I can keep control of my actions when necessary.

Eh...most of the time.

“All right, Gilbert,” Krija says after a while. “Ask away. He's waiting.”

I grin and lean forward a little. “First question. Do you remember me?”

Borim's eyes squint, almost like he wants to glare harder. Then he looks down at the paper, dips the quill pen in the ink and starts to scribble out his answer. Krija reads over his shoulder. “It says -”

But I stop her. “Don't read over his shoulder like that; it's annoying when people do. Besides, I can read, probably from here if he holds it up and -”

“You can read?” Krija's disbelief in this fact is a little annoying, but understandable. Not many people can, you know. Read, that is.

“Yeah,” I say, crossing my arms. “I'm a noble. Eh. Ex-noble, I guess.”

Krija looks curious and she opens her mouth to say something, but Borim finishes writing and holds up the pad of paper for me to read. I take a good long look, having to take a moment to discern the differences in dialect and glyph patterns. Glyphs. Good thing I learned to read those way back when. I haven't seen someone write in glyphs except for the old books. No wonder the human guards don't think Borim can write. He doesn't write in New Common. Which is interesting on its own when you think about it.

Of course the words make me grimace and hang my head like I've been shot. “Idiotic albino half-elf bastard of a king,” I mumble. “Yeah, I'll take that as a yes. For the record, I didn't really like my father much either.”

Borim grunts. I guess that's all he can do, really. Krija, on the other hand, looks shaken. “Bastard of a king...Beilschmidt. You're...why did I not put the pieces together earlier?”

I roll my eyes. “Come on, Krija. Wasting time here. Talk about my past later. Borim, you have power over Anon, don't you?”

Borim returns to writing. I glance over at Krija. She's staring at me now. What? Why is she staring at me? I can't read her expression. I don't think I've ever seen that expression sent my way before. What the hell does it even mean?

My attention goes back on Borim and the paper raises with his response: _“Yes. Overseer. My destined job.”_

“Okay...not sure what you mean by destined, but okay...” I lick my lips. Perfect. I'm getting somewhere. He's talking to me; still doesn't look too happy with me, but he's entertaining me for now, at least. Maybe I'm the one worth being curious about here. “Can you still do it? With your tongue cut out and all, I mean.”

Scribble. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Gods, he almost sounds angry. _“Yes. Humans are fools. I do not control with voice. I control with old mind technique.”_

“Uhm. What? Mind magic? Elves can't do that.” I turn to Krija. “Right?”

She shrugs and shakes her head. But she's smiling. What the fuck is she smiling about? Borim at least seems to be answering my question. He's scribbling again on the pad of paper, and when he lifts it up _he's_ smiling too. What the actual fuck?

“ _I am not Elf. I am Rhialt. Rhialt of the 1_ _st_ _Degree.”_

I read it out loud, and then frown. “Okay, what the fuck does that even mean?”

Krija laughs, her smiles no longer holding it back. I send a glare her way, but she runs a hand through her tangled blond hair as she finds a comfortable seat on her stool again. “Rhialt is what they call themselves. As someone who grew up under Humans, you would know them as Rangers. 1st Degree to them would be High Ranger to you. It's not royalty, and not really nobility either, but Borim comes from a strong lineage in the Ranger community.”

“Uhm. I don't even – what?”

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. _“Mind abilities are bloodline only. I come from a strong bloodline. I control Anon because they are naturally of weaker minds. But more importantly, why do you ask about my ability, Gilbert?”_

It's kind of strange how he spells my name. I mean, I've seen it in glyph form before, but usually with one glyph, not two. Oh well. Different upbringings. Different styles. And names are always weird in different alphabets anyway. Not that it's important. What matters is getting to the point of my questions, I suppose. I hadn't planned to jump ahead so soon, but once again the opportunity is there, so why not?

“Because,” I say as I lick my lips. “How else are we supposed to get a pirate ship in the sky?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the worldbuilding information on the world and the races and powers aren't too confusing. Or at least hoping Gilbert makes the explanations entertaining. The last thing I want to do is confuse and infodump.


	5. Food For Thought

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gilbert searches for people to make a crew.

 

Chapter 5: Food For Thought

 

“ _So what else?”_

“ _You can't be serious.”_

“ _I am serious. I need to make the most of my time down here, so tell me who I need to find when I go back.”_

“ _How are you supposed to find the right people, much less get them to agree with this?”_

“ _I'll handle it. Just trust me.”_

“ _Why should I even bother? It's not like you're going to be able to free me even if you do manage to find everyone you need to escape.”_

“ _Oh, I will though. I know exactly how to get you out.”_

“ _...Right. And pray tell, how do you plan to-”_

“ _Well, I haven't worked out the details yet, but there's plenty of time to set it up. Come on, Arthur. Trust me.”_

“ _You are insufferable.”_

“ _Hey, come on. It's better to try and fail then never try at all.”_

“ _You're quoting philosophy at me now?”_

“ _Heh. Sorry. Kinda how I was raised. But it's a good quote, right? I mean, seriously, what do we have to lose at this point? What's the worst that happens if you trust me? Things just stay as they are, right? So-”_

“ _All right, all right. I get it.”_

“ _Awesome! So, who else should I-”_

“ _Give me time to think, Gilbert.”_

“ _Oh come on. Just tell me whatever you think of first. It can't be that difficult since you've actually been a pirate before.”_

“ _Once a pirate, always a pirate.”_

“ _Huh?”_

“ _Nothing. You realize this isn't in any kind of order of importance, right? Whatever positions I think of, we need those. No matter what.”_

“ _Yeah. I understand.”_

“ _Which means they can't die in the escape.”_

“ _Yeah. I'm not planning for anyone to die-”_

“ _Of course not! No one ever plans for that to happen!”_

“ _...sorry. Probably not the best thing to take lightly, considering...”_

“ _Yeah. Real smart of you.”_

“ _So...are you gonna tell me what you thought of or-”_

“ _A cook.”_

“ _Huh?”_

“ _Shut up. It's all I can think of right now. It's been a while since they brought me some good food and – well, be that as it may, a cook is important. Has to be someone you trust with your life, and someone that knows how to make the most of less.”_

“ _Uh...okay. How the hell am I supposed to find someone like that in here?”_

“ _Now you see why I told you to give up.”_

“ _Fuck that! I'm not giving up! Hell, I haven't even started yet!”_

~!~

“You can't be serious,” Krija says into the stunning silence.

I huff and cross my arms. “I'm dead serious.”

Why does everyone have to doubt me? I say what I mean and if I say I want to use Borim's skills to make a ship fly, then that's exactly what I mean. First Arthur thinks I'm crazy, now these two are looking at me like I've swallowed a sword or something ridiculous. It's not like the idea is that insane. Actually, I think it makes a lot more sense than anything I've tried before. Gathering people into a group effort for escape should work out much better than striking out on my own and hoping for the best.

And yet everyone continues to treat my idea like it's the maddest one they've ever heard. Whatever. Screw them. This will work out and they will all thank me when we're on a pirate ship flying away in the sky, waving goodbye to this shitty ass military prison.

'What ship do you plan to use?” Krija goes on, her arms crossed as she sits comfortably on her stool. “What Anon? What crew?”

I have to hold the smirk back, licking my lips. “Working on it now.”

She blinks, cocks an eyebrow. Gods, I am so sick of seeing people look at me like that. Can't anyone here have any imagination? Any optimism? Then again, these are Elves I'm talking to – well, an Elf and a Ranger – but the point stands. They both live longer than humans and who knows how long they've been down here. Krija already said she's been here longer than me. Not that my spirit is breaking or anything – or ever would – but I guess if you've been down here for so long the guards trust you as a prison medic...

No wonder she seems to have given up.

Of course, while Krija was questioning my decision, Borim was scratching away at his paper. When I turn my head to read the glyphs he's written, I grin. _“The Anon are not hard to find, though possibly hard to gather without detection.”_

I turn to Krija as she reads the glyphs, too. “See? Not impossible.”

She huffs and shakes her head, but doesn't comment right away. Instead she seems to be thinking, staring down at the floor in a half daze. So I leave her to her thoughts and lick my lips again. Borim is staring at me, as if waiting for another comment. Then again, he's been staring at me since I woke up. And probably before then, too, being a bodyguard of sorts for Krija. When I try to stare back, though, his eyes don't blink. At all. Ever. Which makes me shiver, cause I'm pretty sure mine blink three times at least before I can turn my gaze away. Creepy ass motherfucker.

“Gilbert,” Krija says into the silence.

Instead of grinning like a fool or leaning forward like a child, I calmly reach for my shirt which has been laying on the cot this entire time. “Hm?”

“You plan on gathering a pirate crew out of prisoners,” she says. I nod because isn't that much obvious? “By all the gods, how?”

“Easy,” I grin as I throw my somewhat dirty, somewhat blood-stained shirt on, ignoring the slight roughness as it touches my back. “Connections.”

When she blinks, I know the idea has finally passed to her. When she shifts forward on her stool, stands up even, I know she's misinterpreted the idea. “You want to use me.”

There's a little itch between my eyes and I glance to our not-Elf friend, shivering at the glare being sent my way yet again. Damn it. Can no one understand my hidden agendas without twisting them into the worst possible interpretations? “You make it sound awful when you say it like that.”

Krija's eyebrow raises. “Then how am I meant to say it? You still plan to use me for something. I'm not so sure -”

“I'm the bastard of a _king_ ,” I snap, interrupting her. “I want to use you for your connection to the other prisoners, not for your abilities or anything else.”

“What connections, Gilbert?” She snaps back. “I don't walk around trying to make friends with everyone I meet.”

Lifting my hand, I wave the comment off, which only seems to anger her more. She's off the stool now. Borim is getting to his feet, watching her closely, glancing to me every now and then. I try to keep my gaze on Krija, but I can't help it when my eyes want to keep looking over at the huge muscled Ranger who almost choked me to death with one hand earlier. Self preservation wins over all else, and keeping Borim happy means keeping Krija happy on top of everything else I have to watch out for.

Gods, my big mouth is going to get me in trouble no matter how carefully I step here. I grin, feeling it shake a little, as I hold my hands up. Hell, I think my hands are shaking. Damn it all, not the kind of reaction I want to have. But she's important to the cause. Both of them are, but I _need_ Krija if I'm going to get anywhere. That much should be obvious, though. Borim is quick to jump on her side no matter what he thinks of me himself. He'll trust me if she does; he'll go along with me if she does; whether or not she realizes her own power here, I need to use it without pissing her off.

Maybe calling attention to her strength is a good thing. Maybe not. But its the only thing I think of to win this right now. “You're a medic.”

“And?” She says, a hand going to the metal bars, gripping onto it, squeezing tightly. “Yes, I'm a medic, Gilbert, but that doesn't mean-”

I take a breath and steel myself. This will probably piss her off more. “And you're female.”

“What?”

Shit, I knew it. I press back against the wall, trying to keep a somewhat steady gaze on Borim. “Men will naturally want to side with or protect a woman. Look at Borim, here. Whether you wanted a bodyguard or not, he's willing to jump to your rescue, beat me up, or hold back from doing anything just at your request. Not to mention, you're a medic, too, and in a prison full of fights and beatings that's an important role. Even if you weren't female, no doubt the others would be willing to side with you or keep you safe.”

Krija stares at me. I can't read it, though. I can't figure out what she's thinking or what the cross between glare and confusion means for her. Is she thinking about it? Running through past experiences? Gods, I hope she comes out with a result that works in my favor. I have other people to find. Other crew members that need searching for. Using this much effort on one that should be the easiest...well, it's rough enough to make me question my sanity.

The sound of a scratching quill breaks the silence. We both turn to Borim, and I can taste the held tension in the air. Thick fog of unconvinced belief. When the Ranger holds his paper up to Krija and not to me, I tense. They're going to strike against me. It's over. My chance is gone. I'll have to wait, work harder, try something else in the far future when they might be willing to entertain the idea again. Shit.

But then Krija lets out a breath, and a smile. “All right, Gilbert.”

It takes me a while to process the response. “Wait. What?”

“We're with you,” she says with a sigh, showing that she is still reluctant. I suddenly want to know what Borim could have said to convince her. What trick does he know that I don't? I'm going to have to learn from him at some point. “At least for now. You have to understand, though. My 'connections' are only Elves.”

“Wait,” I blink, still unable to believe this is actually happening. “What?”

She crosses her arms, shakes her head. “I will spread this little idea of yours and report back with the results of how ridiculous everyone will see it.”

“Uhm,” I lick my lips. “Right.”

Silence stretches. Borim scratches out something on his pad of paper. My eyes read the glyphs and I roll my eyes at what I read.

“No, I don't plan on being Captain,” I say. “That's what Arthur is for. I'm just trying to gather a crew for him. I know as a half-elf no one is going to follow me. I just need a little trust from those who can help us.”

“ _Easier said than done, half-elf.”_

“Yeah,” I breathe, glancing between both him and Krija as if making a point. “I noticed.”

~!~

Eventually, supper time arrives and the three of us are visited by a guard. Krija and Borim are let out first, while I'm shoved back into the cell and expected to wait. I roll my eyes, make some smart ass comment that pisses the guard off, and manage to win only more time in the cell. What did I say about me and my big mouth? Yeah, whatever, I can take it.

Waiting longer just means everyone else will already be in line and eating before I get up to the cafeteria. It could be a good thing in the long run, possibly half the reason they force me to wait til last most of the time. Let all the seats get taken, force me to sit by myself along the wall with my food tray. Yeah, better to be alone.

By the time they let me out and escort me to the cafeteria, my stomach is growling in protest. Funny thing, hunger. It's easy to ignore when you have something to do. Easy to push to the side...until you think about it, or are reminded about it. Then it's like suddenly the world has to know how fucking starving you feel. True, I wouldn't call this starving. They aren't that cruel. Prison is like hell. They want you to suffer for as long as possible, not waste away and find release in death.

Unless of course their religion says you would go to an even worse place when you die. Then they want you dead, but those people are fewer and farther between and I'm kind of glad for it. All the religious nuts live up north on the other continent. They can have their wars and their gods. Not like I need any help from any god anyway.

Finally, I get to walk to the cafeteria and stand in line for food. I'm somewhat escorted along the way – somewhat, because they're totally watching me but they want to make sure it doesn't look obvious at the same time. Kind of that idea that they don't want me feeling any more special than I already do, except it doesn't work because I already know everyone here hates me before a first impression can even give me a chance. The guards, the prisoners, everyone. They have to keep an eye on me for my own safety, and it feels like sometimes they would turn a blind eye if something really did break out.

I wonder how far I could push my luck. How far could I egg someone on, how much trouble could I get in, before the guards stepped in to make sure their prized prisoner isn't killed by another inmate? Knowing that line is important. Pushing it to find out, eh, that's kind of dangerous, but part of the fun, too.

As I get in line for food, I grin to myself. Testing two birds with one stone. I'm sure there's an Elf back there making food somewhere. Looking for Elves seems like my best bet for finding a crew, seeing as I only have to jump the half-elf barrier to get them to talk to me. At least to talk. If Krija and Borim are anything to go by, I can push further once I break that little barrier on my own.

I frown as I step up to the assembly line of food. No one says a word to me, but glares abound and I make sure to keep a nice distance from the guy just in front of me. Thankfully no one shows up behind me, so I'm not shoved in between two people. The guards really did wait until everyone else had gone through before letting me out. Guess it's for the best, though. Gives me a chance to waste time without having to worrying about pissing off a hungry inmate.

As today's meal gets haphazardly thrown onto my plate, I stare off behind the humans passing out the slop. Okay, it's not really slop. It actually looks really good, smells good, and normally tastes good, too. Whoever is back there working the cafeteria cares about their job, even if they're being forced into it or having to serve prison inmates. I can appreciate that, but being nice and polite never grabs the kind of close attention I need. Compliments are usually taken with a smile in the background or a nod of acceptance. Insults, on the other hand, aren't taken well at all.

When I spy the Elf meandering among the cook staff, I grin. Perfect.

“Really? This shit again?” I half-whine, making sure to put enough high society general asshole into my voice. You should know exactly the kind of tone I'm talking about. “I can't believe the military lets you guys get away with giving us such craptastic food.”

While the humans passing out the food wave me off with a roll of the eyes, I notice the Elf in the background stop and turn. I have to work not to grin at getting his attention. Things couldn't be more perfect. He's got a bit of a darker hair color for an Elf, but nothing that's impossible. Besides, those pointy ears give away his race nice and easy. And he's definitely pissed at my insult to his food.

“Seriously, though,” I go on, pulling the tray up to sniff at the food and having to work to fake my grossed out reaction. “There are so many things wrong with this, it's probably harmful.”

“You're not in a position to complain,” one of the human servers says from the other side of the serving window. Oh, right. They're still there. “Now move along, half elf."

From the corner of my eye, I see a guard shift. There's a bubble of tension in the air, too. A quick glance over my shoulder shows that the nearby inmates in the cafeteria have been distracted by my outburst. Great. I didn't want _everyone_ involved in this. I just want the attention of one person.

Shit. Gonna have to rethink and try again tomorrow. Unless...

“Fine, I'll suffer today,” I say with a sniff as I pick up my tray and prepare to move out into the crowded cafeteria. “But mark my words, I'll be sure to have a list of complaints ready tomorrow. I'll even write them down for you.”

My eyes find the Elf. We lock gazes. The hair on my neck rises just at the glare and the challenge I sense from one look. Oh yeah. Things are going to be just fine. A little slower than I prefer, but I'm willing to sacrifice time for success. At the moment at least.

With an exaggerated huff, I spin on my heels, tray in hand, and search for a place to sit. At first I hum and resign myself to sitting by the wall alone as usual. Then I notice Krija and Borim in a spot at one of the table ends. She finds my gaze and nods her head, barely noticeable, but I catch it and grin.

When I sit down in front of her, she does something I was not expecting in the slightest. She leans over and flicks my forehead. Yeah. Flicks. Like an older sibling gently reprimanding – or jokingly annoying – a younger idiot child. I pause and stare back at her, seeing a shine in her eyes I haven't seen in anyone in years.

After a moment of silence and locked gazes, she sighs and turns attention to her food. “Your methods of persuasion amaze me, Gilbert.”

I smirk. “And I'm just getting started.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, moved it all from ffnet, that's all I have for now. It's been years since I wrote for this, but I'm staring at it again. I really want to write. So look out for more soon (hopefully) if you got this far.

**Author's Note:**

> This story isn't exactly finished but I may start juggling my DragonBall fanfics with my Hetalia fics because I am getting sooooo into this original world again and writing fanfics in my own world is just a shit ton of fun. I do have it all planned out so it's not that I don't know what to do, it just a matter of writing it.


End file.
